I write the check and sign my life over to the clerk at the counter. Unlike full-time students, who pay a flat rate tuition, my credit hours are multiplied by a dollar value and added to my matriculation fee and student activity fees. At least I'm able to pay for my eight credits of fall semester study on a monthly plan. I had to pay for the single composition course I took this summer up front.

Tuition indeed costs less than the rent for my old two-bedroom apartment. It would still be more than I could afford if I wasn't accepting Magister's help.

I do need to pay for my books and materials, but one nice thing about sticking to humanities courses is that the reading material is generally cheaper than science textbooks and career-oriented textbooks are. English literature, philosophy, and religion classes have particularly cheap reading material, at least, when it's the original classics rather than something put into a Norton anthology. Anthologies cost a little more.

Out of the air-conditioned climate of the Office of the Registrar, into the August heat. The campus bookstore awaits.

Classified as I am as a part-time, nontraditional student, I am not eligible for admittance into the honors college, which limits my choice selection somewhat, but I was still able to find an art history survey course yesterday when I picked out my courses for the upcoming semester at the registrar's office. It's a repeat of the course I took as a freshman at my last college, but the hours for the Introduction to Art History course were convenient. It should be an easy A. I already pretty much know the material. There had still been some space left in an upper-level course on existentialist philosophy, too, which I'll need to study formally sometime if I stay in my major, so I'd grabbed that before it was gone.

As it turns out, the Existentialism course uses cheap paperback reprints of the original writings of various philosophers, just like I'd expected it would. It doesn't even look like the books have been marked up any from the price I'd pay if I was buying them in a regular bookstore in one of our local malls.

The art history course has an expensive textbook, though. It's a different one from the one I had the last time I took an introductory survey course in art history, so I don't have the option of just using my old textbook like I'd hoped I could when I signed up for the class in the first place.

Maybe I can study in the bookstore for the first week or two until I can afford to purchase it. If that proves too difficult, I will ask Magister to pay for the book, then reimburse him - it still makes me feel awkward asking him for money, but I did agree months ago, after a long and emotionally painful discussion, that trying to do everything on my own is only acceptable when it does not hurt me. If my grades suffer, that constitutes harm, as harmful to me as starvation, freezing, and overwork.

And harming myself that way, it has been pointed out, makes it hard for him to trust me, especially when the harm would be prevented by my asking him for support that he can easily provide, and my trusting him to not look down on me for asking.

Harming myself is its own punishment, but its consequence is that I must earn back his trust.

"I can't believe I've found another girl gamer," the woman who sits next to me in my existentialism class gushes. "Are there any openings in your party?"

I can't believe my good luck.

My ex, promising to stay in touch with me via regular letters and phone calls that I'm fairly sure she will never make, moved to another state with her boyfriend because he wanted to be closer to his family, and she wanted to be closer to him. That left the group deprived of two players. I'd been wondering how to drag in more people.

"I have a couple of openings. It's funny you mentioned being astonished to find another woman who plays role-playing games - there are two other women in my gaming group. In fact, the only man in the group now is my, um, boyfriend. It makes for some interesting dynamics."

There are no sexist jerks in the group, no players who see gaming as a pastime for male geeks only with no female players allowed in the troglodyte cave. My players have told me that it's refreshing to be in a group where they are allowed to play something other than healers or sexy rogue courtesans, and to actually speak up and contribute to the game as it plays, rather than lurking quietly and meekly until needed. I find it even more refreshing to get to be the game master. I've had so many ideas for games, and no opportunity to use them until now. "Are you free on Sunday afternoons?"

"I am. So is my boyfriend. Can I drag him along? He plays, too. And he's done horror campaigns before."

"Since you'll be replacing two exiting players, that works. Perfect timing."

She has a boyfriend. I don't know why that's disappointing. True, she is not only a really cool person who's another philosophy major and into gaming, she's also a cute blonde goth chick who's a philosophy major and into gaming - but I'm taken. And really, I don't have room in my heart, or free time, for anyone else right now. I'm just noticing that she's cute. So why am I disappointed? Shame on me.

"Awesome! We'll be there!" she says.

I can't wait.

I struggle against the manacles. Every time the sharpened quill presses down into my skin, the sharp scratching sensation makes my body jerk. I can't believe he isn't drawing blood. Who would have thought the sharpened end of an ostrich feather - a feather, for crying out loud - could be so nasty? All the nerves along my arms and torso are on fire.

He presses the tip against the pressure point under my collarbone again and drags it along the nerve endings and skin he's scratched to angry, weeping redness. I hiss.

"Maybe it's time to give you a bit of a break," he muses.

Yes. Let's do that. That's an excellent idea.

He starts tickling the raw welts with the feather end. Better - even though I hate being tickled, it's still better. Much, much better.

"Can I ask a question?" We're not doing this as part of my magickal training, so I have my voice. Over the past few months or so of living together, the lines between formal training and informal lovemaking have blurred considerably, but there are still some boundaries we've kept intact, one of them being that if a circle is cast, energy work of any kind is performed, or actual lessons have commenced, I remain silent and attentive. He thinks the formalities help keep me from losing myself and my identity in a romantic haze of submissive ecstasy because the formalities separate what is fundamentally me from what is a position I happen to be in, something of critical importance now that I am part of his household rather than living independently, and I'm inclined to agree with him.

He smiles. I'm sure I'm only imagining that his smile looks like something the wolf would have flashed at Little Red Riding Hood. "You can certainly ask."

"Why is it that when you tie me down or otherwise restrain me, you so often spread-eagle me?"

"Several reasons, although that was a nice reminder to employ a bit more variety in the future. The first, and simplest, is that I happen to think you look quite fetching that way. I enjoy feasting on you with my eyes. Second is that it's a very convenient position, in that it creates all sorts of vulnerabilities. Your skin, for instance, is stretched taut, making it easier to mark and making that marking, regardless of what form it takes, more physically intense."

"You mean it hurts more."

"Of course."

He smiles again, although it would be more accurate to describe it as a cheerful baring of teeth. Definitely wolfish. I was absolutely not imagining it. I wonder how many years it took him to perfect that "smile." I hope he's never accidentally broken into that smile in front of any young children, or any overly imaginative or nervous adults, for that matter.

"Also, it's easier to fit you onto the futon while still supporting your extremities if I spread-eagle you. In some stretched positions, your feet dangle over the edge, and that's a form of discomfort I would rather spare you, as it can be distracting, not to mention bad for your circulation. I need to accommodate your height properly. Then, of course, there's the way arranging you like this leaves all sorts of body parts exposed. Your imagination can probably supply enough details, there."

I sigh melodramatically.

"Well. Maybe I can provide a bit of a demonstration." His weight presses into me as he covers me with his body; our lips meet, then our tongues, and I moan into him when his hand reaches down between my legs and illustrates, over and over, just how vulnerable I am.

"And finally," he says, unfastening and shedding his trousers, "the spread-eagle position has a certain amount of esoteric significance, or at least, it can. Our souls are stars, each of us burning brightly in this universe with the spark of the divine; we are all, every one of us, stars. It is our task to remember this. We must learn to hear the music of the spheres and our place in the sacred harmony. When you are restrained in this position, you bear a rough resemblance to a five-pointed star. It's a visual and kinesthetic reminder of your divine fire." As he enters me, he asks, "Did you know your aura glows when you climax?"

"It does?"

"It does," he says, and proceeds to set about demonstrating it to me.